


Strangers

by theartofrevolution



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Gen, Inspired by a Hozier Song, Mirrors, Self-Reflection, disassociating ?, idk this is a weird one folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:00:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theartofrevolution/pseuds/theartofrevolution
Summary: Din has the opportunity to look into a mirror, wich he hasn´t done for a long time. It sparks some thinking about things ... He doesn´t recognize himself or does he ?
Kudos: 11





	Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> This goes as usual: English isn`t my first language. Nothing is beta read and i dont own anything, i just hope ya´ll enjoy ^^  
> Also this one feels a little chaotic to me idk.

The blinds rattle closed, shutting out the red light of a setting sun aswell as the ganze of anyone who might look inside. In the darkness the Mandalorian walks back to the door, double checking if it is locked. It is. He walks back to the blinds, checking them aswell. In total darkness he starts taking his armour off. Fingers undoing clips, hooks and buckles, carefully lifting off sunwarm pieces of metal, smooth and heavy and oh so familiar. He places them gently on a soft blanket, letting his fingers stroke over each individual piece before setting ist down, thanking ist for its service. The proudness blossoming in the Mandalorians chest almost drowns out the dreadful exposed feeling that grows with every closure he undoes. But still he can feel his pulse throbbing under his skin, the tension building in his muscles. A sort of feeling that makes him feel hunted and on edge. The last piece is a small plate on his wrist, not much bigger than the width of a finger. He takes it of slowly, willing his fingers to stay still and puts it with the others, turnig slowly towards the small table, certain that what he is about to expirience will rattle him more than any fight or war or mission could. A shallow bowl and a jug of water waits for him. But more improtantly: a mirror. 

It seems like an eternity since he had last seen himself. There were no mirrors around on the Crest and hardly any in the covent. Eventhough his beskar is shiny the refelction it provides is distorted and unclear. That means that he goes through his routines without beeing able to look at himself. Wich is something he almost apriciates. It keeps him focused on the important things. His dutys. His service. The way. It feels slightly frevoulus to be able to look in a mirror now, not that it is prohibited. Not that he missed it or tried particularily hard. But still.

The Mandalorian cant remember what he looks like, cant even imagine himself. A light tremor shakes his right forearm he closes his fist, flexing the shaking muscle, pushing the shaking away. He takes off the rest of the many layers, eager to be over with this.

~He knows about himself that his hair and eyes are brown, that his musculature is sturdy and well trained. He knows that his body does its service to him and through him to his people. He knows that there are scars along his torso and arms and legs, littering his fingers and probably his back too. The Mandalorian was proud of them, they made him beskar underneath beskar bearing witness to why he had earned each and every piece of his armour. They´re what he liked best about what he knew about his appearance. ~

And so the Mandalorian stands infront of the mirror his eyes shut tight, every muscle in his body pulled taught, like a viper about to strike. Somehow his body wouldn´t let him move, but his mind - still uncomfortable with not touching the beskar at all times - finally hurried him along. His eyes flew open and looked the man in the eye that was supposed to be him. The man stood ramrod straight, feet hipswith apart, grounded and unmoving. The shadows cast by the small luminizers flanking the mirror caught in the dips of his physique. Their darkness mixed with the purple and blue of bruised skin, contrasting the rest of ist goldenness. So this is the body, he thought gaze meandering along its contours the way it meanders along the stars and emptyness of space whenever he looks out the windows of his ship. A strange sort of yearning overcomes him. What would he look like if he weren´t himself? Most people looked similar to their parents in some way. Did he look like his father ? He can´t remember. Staring his reflection directly into ist eyes he realizes how his eyes were to hard, to cold for their color. Strangely they looked like the should be gentle not sunken in deep from sleepless nights on the hunt, not predatory but wise. They looked at him so sharp, so steady and judging staight into his own soul. He didn´t dare look anymore, as he realized he was a stranger unto himself. The man in the mirror was young, in the prime of his life but with a soul so shaken by pain and violence, bearing the fate of a family and a clan.

For a short moment he wavers, he thinks that he can´t, that he wants to break, that he wants everything to dissolve. But he quickly shoves that thought away and hurries himself through his routine until he can put everything back on. Catching a last glimpse of deep brown before the helmet goes back on. He curls up on the bed. Metal clicking, sliding together softly and making him feel safe again.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading ^^


End file.
